


Obey, Champion

by Inactive_Account



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Amputation, Bloodplay, Depression, M/M, Master/Slave, Rape/Non-con Elements, Sexual Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-28
Updated: 2016-11-28
Packaged: 2018-09-02 21:18:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,655
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8683735
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Inactive_Account/pseuds/Inactive_Account
Summary: Shiro awoke after the surgery . . . The missing limb was grief enough, but Zarkon wanted to claim his slave.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [haatofulsharkchan](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=haatofulsharkchan).



Shiro blinked away the sleep . . .

There was a bright light above him. He winced and threw his left arm over his eyes; it acted as a fine shield from the artificial lights, but the after-images lingered and the pain stung his corneas like a knife through the flesh. It took time to adjust to the brightness. There was a strange sensation in his head, like waking from anaesthesia or a bad drug trip, where his mind felt cloudy and foggy, as if caught between awake and asleep, unable to leave either state.

It was disorientating, as every thought was broken and bled into the next. He was slow to react, slow with his reflexes, and everything passed by like a hallucination, something that he knew could not be real and yet somehow was real. Shiro let his head roll back and forth. The bed beneath him was solid and hard, like metal only warm, and – as his hand fell with a loud and uncontrollable slap beside him – he realised there were no sheets. There was a pillow beneath his head, but one filled with beans or buckwheat like the _makura_ of his youth.

The pillow made obnoxious noises with every move of his head, as the contents crunched and crackled against itself, and soon Shiro felt the urge to stand up. He made to press his hands against the metal bed, which was angled at around forty-five degrees, and it wouldn’t take too much energy to push upright onto his feet. The problem was that his right arm must be numb, as he couldn’t find a means to control the limb or move it for support.

‘ _He appears to be coming around_ ,’ called a female voice.

The table was tilted at ninety degrees. Shiro fell to his feet and reached out for stability, as he searched for a wall or some furniture to ground himself, and – as only one arm worked and moved – he struggled immensely to remain on his feet. He fell forward, only to be caught by two strong arms. They held him upright, as he collapsed against the cold plate of chest armour, while the room spun around him and a sense of nausea welled up within his stomach, until he could barely process the events around him. The world felt unreal.

‘ _He does not have the prosthetic_ ,’ said a male voice.

‘ _Not yet, but the amputation will take time to heal.’_ The words made no sense to him, but the female was familiar in a strange way to his hazy mind. ‘ _We will attach the cybernetic arm in a few days, once we can be sure the stump is strong enough to support the new technology.’_

Shiro pushed himself away with his left hand, as he stumbled back against the table. It was restored to its horizontal state, just a little higher than Shiro’s waist, and – as he fell against the right side of his body – he wondered why there was no pain or pressure upon his arm. He turned around and felt his mind clear of its fog. He was still dressed in the body suit all prisoners wore, along with the ragged top that barely covered most of his chest, and yet something felt odd . . . exposed . . . bare. Shiro looked to his right arm.

He screamed.

There was nothing. There was only a stump where his arm once rested; the remaining part of his upper arm was wrapped in bandages, stapled in places and bloody in others, and yet – despite all evidence to the contrary – he swore he could _feel_ where the limb once rested. He felt himself shake and shiver with fear, unable to comprehend the horror. Shiro reached out with his remaining hand. He tried to grab his arm . . . tried to touch it . . . nothing.

Shiro let out a blood-curdling cry, as tears streamed down his face, until his eyes stung and were blinded from any clear vision. He could taste the salt on his lips. There was a deep pain in his stomach, as he collapsed to his knees and continued to grab and stab at the air where his arm once was located. He could feel his heart race. He could hear his pulse throb in his ears. The sickness rose until he could bear it no longer, unable to process how he could live without his arm, until he retched – throat contracting with pain – until he vomited.

The choking sensation was the worst part of the situation. The contents of his stomach burned his throat, as well as his nose, and soon he could feel the acidic liquid all around his lips and mouth. The taste was unbearable. The contents fell about the floor before him, creating a sickly brown puddle that contained chunks of undigested meat, and Shiro could only weep as he braced himself on his remaining arm. He tried not to touch the vomit.

“I shall leave you and your toy alone,” said Haggar.

There was a sound of a door opening and closing, as footsteps drifted away. Shiro sobbed brokenly, until he collapsed on his side, and – as he stared into the vomit just inches before his face – he realised that this must have been the medical laboratory. It was the only part of the castle lit in lighting comparable to Earth, as the Druids needed perfect sight to deal with their experiments, and it allowed him to see his missing limb in all its glory. Shiro felt caught in a bad dream. He tried over and over to move his right arm, even though it was gone.

He struggled to breathe. The hyperventilation struck hard and fast, his breaths came out in a long string, until his throat ceased and he was on the verge of a fainting spell, and then – with great cruelty and expectation – a large hand locked around his throat. Shiro was lifted high upon the table, where he was dropped onto the metal and pushed back, so that he was forced to stare up at the ceiling with a dazed expression. His buttocks rested at the edge of the bed.

“It’s time you repaid me, Champion,” said Zarkon.

Zarkon positioned himself between Shiro’s two legs, which hung over the edge of the table, and – as he looked up – he could only see a hazy blur through his tears. The image was enough to make his blood run cold. The emperor had shuck off his more bulky armour, leaving him in just his body suit with arms and legs covered, and the sash around his waist had been removed in turn, so as to improve the convenience of access. Zarkon kept his helmet upon his head, so that only that wrinkled and old Galra face could be seen.

It was enough to reduce Shiro into a weeping mess; he could fight back in the arenas, just as he could force a smile before the other prisoners, but here he was helpless to do anything except endure the abuse commanded by Zarkon. The small blessing was that Zarkon was possessive: he would not share Shiro. There were even times where he would be gentle, to provide some reprieve to the human with limitations unlike other species, such as today . . .

“Do you want this hard or easy?” Zarkon asked.

Shiro found no strength to respond.

He continued to sob, as he kept attempting to move his arm out of instinct. There was no clenching of his fist, no ache to his joints, and no sense of balance to his body. There was only the absence. It was an arm both there and not there, while the stump burned so much that it felt as if someone had sliced through his arm with a hot blade, and he wanted to apply pressure to his flesh, only to find the flesh deformed. Shiro knew that whatever prosthetic they gave him would provide an advantage in the ring, but at what cost did that come?

Shiro flinched as a hand struck his face. There was great strength to Zarkon, perhaps more so than in any of his opponents to date, and the fist hit his jaw at the perfect angle, so that – with a heavy slap of flesh – he felt blood drawn and a bruise begin to form. He choked back his cries, until they became small hiccups of air and emotion, as he crushed closed his eyes to try and force back his tears in response. Zarkon gave a low growl of amusement.

“I will ask you again, Slave,” said Zarkon. “Easy or hard?”

“Easy, Master,” whispered Shiro. “Please.”

“Better. Far better.”

One hand raked down his chest. The other clenched at his hip. Four long claws scraped lines between his nipples, close to his collarbone, where they began with just enough pressure to elicit a few bubbles of blood, and soon – with a scream of pain – they drew forth four parallel lines of open cuts through the fabric of his suit. Shiro made to grab the sides of the table, only to forget that there was just one arm in his panic. The realisation made him scream.

He forced his remaining hand to his mouth, where he bit down upon the knuckles to muffle his cries of panic and confusion, and he tried to ignore the way that Zarkon spread out the fingers of his hand to run his palm through the blood. The emperor painted various symbols and images against flesh and fabric, sometimes words in his language, but the only thing Shiro recognised – through the blurred vision and light-headed stupor – was the word ‘mine’. He was the possession of the emperor, something he would never be allowed to forget.

“This time you will be marked as mine,” promised Zarkon.

There was a rip of fabric, as one claw ripped a hole from balls to hole, exposing Shiro’s scarred perineum to the cold air. It forced Shiro to draw in a deep breath; he was flaccid and far from aroused, but he knew that Zarkon preferred his pets to ‘enjoy’ the acts between them, and soon he would be harder than he had ever been on Earth. Zarkon moved his hand to free his already hard length from his trousers, as he looked down at Shiro and laughed.

The previous words barely registered in Shiro’s mind. There was movement from the hand on his hips, as it trailed down the crease of his thigh and then traced a line to his hole, and – still somewhat slicked from their time before the operation, still loose from twice daily ‘consummations’ – it pressed its way inside of him. It slipped inside too easily, making him realise that Zarkon had likely prepared him while he was unconscious. The thought made him physically sick to his stomach, as he gagged and retched, tasting acid in his mouth.

Zarkon purposely kept the claws of his left hand cut short. They would be unable to tear Shiro from the inside that way, while Shiro looked down to see that purple and engorged length – almost identical to a human, save for dozens of small barbs over the foreskin – aimed at his hole and waiting to enter. He tried not to brace himself for what was to come, as he knew tensing would cause more pain in the long run, but then came something new.

Emperor Zarkon swiped at him with his bloodied hand.

The fingers at his hole doubled at the exact moment, sending a confusing set of signals to his mind, and – as he saw those claws come away from his face – he realised that there was a long cut across cheeks and nose. There was blood. Zarkon had sliced across his face, where the blood ran down into his eyes and over his lips, and he screamed out at the extreme pain, until another finger entered him from below, where it crooked and hit his pleasure spot. It made Shiro sick to feel arousal burst through him, so that he had to turn his head and vomit.

“Let it out, Slave,” teased Zarkon. “Let me in.”

Those fingers left his hole. Both hands embraced his hips. Shiro was given only a second to catch his breath and swallow away the leftover vomit, while he kept his eyes closed to avoid the blood from stinging his eyes. The blood would later congeal and crust. He would need Zarkon to administer the aftercare, where he would tenderly wash away the blood, but to have those hands touch him – even ‘kindly’ – made him want to weep.

Zarkon slid deep to the hilt, without any time for adjustment. It filled Shiro to the brim, so that he was choked for breath and hand to clench harder upon the side of the table, and – as he tried to force himself to adjust, pushing against Zarkon’s member to ease entry – he noticed the absence of his arm all the more. That member was hot inside him, so much that it almost burned, and the barbs rubbed against his inner ridges and prostate in a way that would be perfect coming from Keith or someone he wanted. The sensations were too conflicted.

“You will enjoy this,” ordered Zarkon.

Shiro cried out as Zarkon thrust; the movements were fast-paced and hard, enough that he knew he would walk with a limp the next day, and the friction with the lubricant added to the insane frenzy of heat and a tingling sensation to his parts. He realised – as his blood-stained clothes clung to his body – that this lubricant was the ‘special’ one used by Zarkon when Shiro had been ‘good’, and it increased his arousal to levels otherwise unknown.

It felt good, even despite the pain, and Shiro cursed himself. He felt dirty and used, broken and worthless, while his erection soon grew and wept beneath his suit, so that he could feel the swollen head press itself beneath his belly button. Shiro swallowed hard, while his inner walls clenched around that invading length. His heart began to race, even as his breath left him in frantic gasps, and he felt tears in his eyes merge with the blood, unable to stop them as they raced down the sides of his head and into now white hair. He hated himself.

Shiro came long and hard.

He felt the ropes of come stick between fabric and skin, as his back arched and stomach muscles clenched, and his body was slick with sweat from his exertions, while hair stuck to his forehead and ears in an uncomfortable manner. Shiro felt his body reach the height of ecstasy, as he gave a silent cry and clenched his hands – _hand_ – with a sickening sense of grief, until he began to weep in earnest. He could never face Matt again. He couldn’t face his friends, not when his inner walls fluttered and tightened around Zarkon’s cock.

Zarkon came soon after him. The emperor gave a high-pitched noise, so familiar and yet so hated by Shiro, that was almost like the sound of a mating turtle, and yet – despite the urge to laugh at how ridiculous his master sounded – Shiro could only curse at the feeling of hot and salty come as it coated every inch of his insides. It leaked out of his hole, until it dripped down his thighs and onto the floor, and it made him nauseous once more.

“You are mine,” screamed Zarkon.

The clawed hand shot up to grasp Shiro’s head, where it forced it to look upon him, and the grip – so tight and so forceful – made it clear that to look away would be cause for a brutal whipping for his disobedience. Shiro opened his eyes, aching and sore from the blood and tears, until the hazy image of his rapist came vaguely into sight.

“You are mine,” repeated Zarkon. “Say it, Slave.”

“I am yours,” whispered Shiro. “Yours.”

Zarkon came inside once again.

 

 


End file.
